


A Question of Evidence

by lildogie



Category: Monk - Fandom
Genre: Episode Tag, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 04:03:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lildogie/pseuds/lildogie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tag for <i>Monk</i> 7:2, "Mr. Monk and the Genius," so there are spoilers for that episode. </p><p>Monk and Stottlemeyer attend the chess grand master Kloster's trial, and talk about what Adrian did and did not do while investigating the case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Question of Evidence

**Author's Note:**

> ( _Spoilers!_ ) I had been more planning to write some Stottlemeyer/Disher, but I read several great M/S fics, and then I saw this episode, with the following exchange when Stottlemeyer realizes Monk is thinking about planting evidence:
> 
>  **Stottlemeyer:** Don't do it.  
>  **Monk:** Don't do what?  
>  **Stottlemeyer:** Break my heart.
> 
> ...And then I sat down and wrote this.  
> 

Kloster could afford good lawyers, and despite the strength of the evidence, the trial dragged long. Monk was never in doubt of the verdict, however, and when he took the stand, he couldn't restrain a grim smile in the direction of the defendant's table. Kloster met his gaze with icy calm. There was antipathy behind those eyes, but the chess master clearly considered open agitation beneath his dignity.

Monk's smile faded, and unconsciously he clasped his hands in front of his chest. He could feel their warmth lingering there—Trudy's, Linda Kloster's—and the rest of him went cold. Linda, a warm, courageous woman who was moved to neither panic nor aggression even in the face of her own death, and Tatiana, a cipher, but another life ended far too soon, both just tools—pawns to Kloster, killed with no more emotion than tipping over a lacquered piece on a board.

Recognition lit in Kloster's eyes, and the corner of his mouth flickered very slightly. Anger flared in Monk's chest. His teeth clenched as he stared at that self-satisfied expression. The man was still reading him, still playing. Two people who had made the mistake of trusting him were dead, and he was still playing games...

A movement beyond Kloster pulled Monk's attention from the staring contest into the gallery. Stottlemeyer was sitting near the back, the only face Monk recognized among the spectators. The Captain wasn't testifying today, so he wasn't behind the prosecutor's table with Natalie, wasn't wearing a tie with his suit, and his collar was a little crooked. Monk's shoulder twitched. Everyone was focused on the prosecutor as he prefaced the upcoming testimony, except for Kloster, whose eyes Monk could feel like a needle pressed against his skin, not quite hard enough to prick, and Stottlemeyer, who simply looked up at Monk, his arms folded across his chest, posture relaxed, gaze unfaltering.

Monk became aware of the hammering of his heart in his chest, the tension through his jaw and throat, the pain in his fingers from clasping them so tightly. And even as he did, as he kept his eyes on Stottlemeyer's, the tension began to unfurl, his heartbeat to slow. He took a breath, released it almost evenly. Across the courtroom, Stottlemeyer nodded. Monk swallowed and nodded back, and when the prosecutor turned to question him, Monk's voice was steady.

* * *

"Good job," Stottlemeyer said as Monk exited the courtroom.

Monk looked up in surprise. He'd spent a quarter of an hour after everyone else had left straightening the seats in the gallery; even Natalie had gone home.

Stottlemeyer pushed himself away from the wall with a grunt. "Get 'em all?" he asked.

"Oh, um..." Monk turned back, suddenly unsure.

"Meant to say, _got_ 'em all," Stottlemeyer said, putting a hand between Monk's shoulder blades and guiding him firmly away from the door.

"A-are you sure?" Monk asked, craning his neck over his shoulder and digging in his heels.

"I watched you. Every last one was level straight. Swear on my badge."

"Mmm..." Monk furrowed his brow, still resisting, then— "Ah!"

"What?" Stottlemeyer came to a halt.

Monk reached out with both hands and took hold of his shirt collar. He gave it a firm tug to the right, then patted it into place. " _Oh,_ " he sighed, "that's much better." He narrowed his eyes and gave it a slight tug to the left. "You'll thank me later." He pinched the fold to sharpen the crease and rearranged the points so that each side descended at the same angle. He tilted his head, considering. Then in the other direction. All right. It was even. He drew his hands away slowly, so as not to upset the balance, and stepped back, surveying his handiwork.

Stottlemeyer snorted. "See? Picasso."

Monk blinked, then smiled. "Just not with a paintbrush."

"C'mon, I'll give you a ride."

* * *

"All right," Stottlemeyer said as Monk stepped onto the sidewalk, "see you bright and early tomorrow."

"Wait," Monk said. Stottlemeyer looked up at him from the driver's seat. "Wait. Do... you want to come in for a drink?"

"A drink?"

"I have water. And orange juice. No pulp. I strained it to make sure."

Stottlemeyer considered for a moment, then turned off the engine. "Sounds good," he said, and followed Monk inside the building. 

Monk tried to wipe his feet quickly in deference to his guest, but then he felt he hadn't done it thoroughly enough and had to start over. When he stepped inside his apartment, opening the door wide to invite Stottlemeyer in, the Captain remained standing on the doormat. "Are we doing twenty, now?"

"No, no ten is fine. Please. Thank you."

"Okay..." Stottlemeyer took an uncharacteristic amount of care with each wipe, as Monk counted along in his head. Eight... nine... ten. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He began to move forward, but when Monk didn't move, he stopped, and after a moment, he looked around. He eyed the umbrellas hanging to his right, then looked down at his shoes.

"No, it isn't that," Monk said.

Stottlemeyer lowered the sole he'd raised to inspect. "Oh, good." He waited.

Monk's hands opened and closed. He squeezed them a few times before forcing himself to loosen his fingers. "Captain," he said.

"Yes?"

Monk turned to look at the umbrellas. They were all facing the same way, but maybe the center one was hanging just _slightly_ less than parallel. He reached to fix it, then pulled his hand back, fisting it against his chest. "Captain," he repeated.

"Yes."

"I... I broke into his house." Monk looked warily up at Stottlemeyer, then hurried on. "Okay, technically it wasn't _breaking_ , because he'd left the window unlocked for me. But it was unlawful entry. And... and..." The Captain was simply watching him, with the same steady blue gaze that had held him from across the courtroom, only now it had the opposite effect. Monk looked at his hands. "I made it. The poison. Put it in a little bottle, just like you said. Wiped all my fingerprints off and wore gloves. I was going to do it."

Silence. All he could see of Stottlemeyer at this angle was his belt buckle, which moved slightly as he breathed, but nothing more. "I climbed in the window," Monk said. "I hid the bottle between some books on a shelf. I was halfway out the window again before I changed my mind."

"You took it back?" Stottlemeyer asked, voice neutral.

Monk nodded. He thought he noticed a scratch on that belt buckle. Maybe it was just a hair or a smudge. Stottlemeyer probably wouldn't be happy if he tried to buff it away. Maybe he should ask him to take it off. He might not know it now, but he'd be much better off with the buckle properly polished.

"Because you figured out he'd killed his first wife?" Stottlemeyer asked.

Monk's shoulders twitched. "No," he said. "I realized that later."

"Why'd you take it back, then?" Stottlemeyer's voice was even and soft. It was the one he used when he was being careful with someone. Monk heard it a lot. Right now he was afraid of what it meant.

He looked up into Stottlemeyer's face. He wore the expression that went with that tone, indulgent, but... carefully restrained. Monk pressed his lips together, examining his friend, but he was neutral, neutral, neutral. Monk reached out without thinking. He flicked open the left side of Stottlemeyer's jacket and spread his hand over his chest. The Captain was as surprised by the gesture as Monk himself, because he took a step back and came up against the door. Monk followed, refusing to break contact, staring at his own hand pressed over Stottlemeyer's breast pocket.

Stottlemeyer tensed under his touch, but he didn't move again. He didn't speak. He just breathed. And waited. The wide chest under Monk's hand rose and fell, rose and fell. Finally came the subtle, answering pressure of a heartbeat. Tap, tap, tap, against his palm. Almost too faint to perceive through layers of cotton; he had to be very still and concentrate to feel it. Tap, tap, tap.

He looked up. The Captain was watching him; his gaze was startling at this distance, and Monk realized he was trying to read him, looking for answers in Monk's face exactly the way he was. It was selfish, but he was going to ask first. "Did I..." Monk said. "Did I break it?"

The answer didn't come immediately. The pause was eight heartbeats long—so close—then Stottlemeyer's hand rose and covered his. Monk startled. He began to pull his hand back—wipe, wipe, wipe—but caught himself. No. No. Tap, tap, tap.

Stottlemeyer's hand was a warm, firm pressure on top of his, reassuring despite the risk of germs it posed. Tap, tap, tap.

"How's it feel?" Stottlemeyer asked. His voice rumbled through Monk's palm.

Monk's mouth twitched into and out of a smile. "Still there," he said.

Stottlemeyer flicked his eyebrows and said nothing.

"Captain," Monk started. "Leland..." Something in those blue eyes flickered at the use of his first name and Monk's arm twitched again, beginning to pull away before he caught himself. No. "Would it really break because of me?" he asked.

Stottlemeyer's eyes narrowed and the line of his mouth tightened. Monk swallowed.

"Why'd you take the bottle back?"

Monk couldn't remember being tempted to plant evidence before. He'd always been confident enough that the true evidence would speak to him before it was too late. But his failure to protect Linda had cut deep, and standing there, Kloster taunting him from the other side of the thin blue line, watching him revel in his game when all Monk had to do to bring him to justice was _cheat_... It had almost been too much. But.

But if he crossed that line, he'd be leaving Leland Stottlemeyer behind.

"I think," Monk said slowly, "you're the only one who's really kept track. You watched, and you remembered, all these years. If, all of a sudden, I wasn't the man you know... who would I be?"

Stottlemeyer exhaled through his nose and closed his eyes. A smile spread across his face, denting his cheeks and creasing the skin around his eyes. His hand tightened over Monk's, and Monk knew the second he let go he was going to run into the bathroom and wash it, but for the moment it felt good. It was an infinite relief to feel anchored on the right side of the line, where he belonged, who he had always been.

It was a few moments before Monk realized he no longer had to concentrate to make out Stottlemeyer's heartbeat. He frowned at his friend. "You're not... you're not worried I'll be tempted again, are you?"

"No," said Stottlemeyer. "I'm not worried anymore."

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. Beating against his palm much faster and stronger than before. "Then why—?" Monk began. Blue eyes opened, and what he saw in them made Monk's own eyes widen.

"You outmaneuvered the world's greatest chess player, Adrian," Stottlemeyer said. "You'll figure it out."

 

End


End file.
